


Snapshot

by CaffeinatedWriter



Category: Bully: Scholarship Edition
Genre: Child Abuse, Child Neglect, Internalized Homophobia, Non-Graphic Violence, Other, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-27
Updated: 2015-05-09
Packaged: 2018-03-09 07:26:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3241307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaffeinatedWriter/pseuds/CaffeinatedWriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The verse where everyone has tragic childhood backstories.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lola

**Author's Note:**

> This verse contains a series of flash fics based on the idea that each character is the way they are because of a shitty childhood (which is probably completely true).

She remembers when Mama cut off all her hair into a choppy, hastily made bob. Sat her down with a rough hand on the shoulder and started cutting without a word. Lola had squeaked in shock, whimpering when Mama put pressure on her shoulder, warning her to stay still or else. You don't argue with Mama when she's telling you to do something.

"No hair, nothing to grab," she explains afterwards, voice soft to comfort and arms wrapped around Lola as they both stare into the mirror. Lola is still crying, silently like all tears in this neighborhood. Never let anyone see you cry; that was Mama's first lesson.

She doesn't know how Mama knows Daddy pulls her by the hair or that the boys in the neighborhood do the same. She doesn't know that Mama knows from experience, the way that any girl in their neighborhood finds out.

The boys in the neighborhood laugh at her. They tell her she looks like a boy. That she'll never catch a man's attention looking like that. Johnny tells her he likes it and takes a picture with the old polaroid camera he found in Mr. Accardi's apartment after the man got shot.

"Good," says Mama after school, mixing melted Mexican chocolate from the Latin market down the street into the pot of heated milk on the stove. Hot chocolate is expensive, a delicacy, and a sign that Mama is about to teach her a lesson she's not to forget.

"You listen to me, mi vida. Nothing good comes from the attention of men." She pours the cocoa into a mug and slides it over to where Lola is sitting on the counter. Lola, who gets as much enjoyment wrapping her little hands around the heated mug as she will from drinking it. She looks up, eyes curious.

"Johnny's attention is good," she whispers, like maybe she's betraying her mother by saying so. But she can't imagine Johnny being like the men she sees in the neighborhood who leer at the girls as early as middle school. Not all the men are like this, she knows this to be true, but it feels like every day, there are more eyes.

"Johnny is a boy. He will grow. Perhaps not. We will see; time will tell," Mama says. She sounds sad like when she won't make promises she can't keep. Mama never promises her anything she isn't sure of, and sometimes Lola hates it. Mama isn't sure of much. Sometimes Lola wants to be lied to.

"I don't want to look like a boy," Lola says finally, breaking the silence. Mama hums under her breath, digging through the drawer below where Lola is sitting.

"When we get money, we fix it. For now, this," Mama says, dividing what's left of Lola's hair into two sections and banding it off. It hurts; they don't have the luxury of hair ties, only rubber bands, but she feels better when Mama holds up a mirror. They're uneven because of the cut, but much cuter than the bob is by itself.

"Mi vida?" Mama calls softly, moving to clean the dishes from the cocoa and hide the chocolate from Daddy who always yells at Mama for introducing Lola to 'spic shit'. She doesn't know what that means, but Mama's face always gets real hard afterwards.

"Yes, Mama?" she answers, blowing on her hot chocolate before taking a sip.

"They say you look like boy? Good. You act like boy. Do you know what strong women are called in this neighborhood?" she asks, keeping her eyes trained out the kitchen window where she can see a fight breaking out across the street. The streets that she allows her daughter to roam unsupervised; there is no protecting children from New Coventry.

Lola does know what they're called. There's different words in different languages. The neighborhood is a melting pot after all, but it all comes down to the same thing.

"A bitch," Lola answers softly. Swearing a part of growing up in New Coventry, but Mama is not a fan, and she's made that lesson one of her clearest.

"Yes. Lola, you listen to your mama; if nothing else, you remember this. When these boys call you bitch, you wear it like armor. Wear it with pride, because if you are not a bitch, you are their bitch. You are victim, and I do not want that for you." Mama won't look at her.

"But Mama, Johnny-"

"Boys grow into men, mi vida. And in this neighborhood, they don't stay boys long."

The boys in the neighborhood turn into men.

Lola turns into a bitch.

Johnny stays the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mi vida translates to 'my life'. Lola's mother uses it as a petname.
> 
> This is definitely one of many ficlets in this series. If there's a particular character you want to see next, don't be afraid to let me know. Also, come love me at my [tumblr](http://beathimbacktotheghetto.tumblr.com) where I'm 100% guaranteed to respond and I take drabble requests.


	2. Kirby

Kirby is six when he realizes something’s wrong with him.

He’s smaller than the rest of the boys in his class, some of the girls too, and he can’t help his size, but his dad sure does like to yell at him like he can. Like he asked to be smaller than his younger sisters who pick on him because they can, and there’s nothing worse than getting your ass handed to you by two four year old girls, except maybe the look Dad gives him afterwards.

His dad throws the football at him, and he drops it immediately, but at least he caught it to begin with. Dad says that shows potential, which is better than failure. Potential means he might not get yelled at, or even that he’ll get yelled at later which is much better than the alternative of being chewed out on the front lawn in front of the neighbors.

It’s not that Kirby doesn’t like football, because he does. Not just because Dad likes it either, though that does factor in. 

He likes watching games, sitting on the floor next to where Dad is sprawled on the couch. It’s the only sport where he knows all the rules, and the only time where Dad doesn’t get frustrated with his questions. It’s also the only time he yells at the girls to leave Kirby alone. 

The problem is, he’s just not very good at it.

The other boys at school don’t really mind. They’re not very good at it either, but that probably has a lot to do with the fact that they insist on using a ball bigger than their heads. But they’re really nice about it, and they still let him play, which is strange seeing as there’s a girl who’s really good who they never let play.

She’ll throw the ball with Kirby sometimes, when the rest of the boys have wandered off. He asks her about it; she doesn’t ask anymore. Just sits and waits for them to be done with the ball, and he’s tried to convince them to let her play since she’s so nice, but they just say she can’t. 

“Why can’t you play football with us, but you can throw the ball with me?” he asks, chucking the ball as hard as he can. It lands a good foot away from her, but she goes to pick it up without complaint anyways. She never makes comments about how bad Kirby is at throwing. 

“I can, I’m just not suppose to,” she answers, tossing the ball back at him. It flies over his head, and she apologizes like she always does when she throws a ball he couldn’t possibly catch. He retrieves it, pausing when he turns back to her.

“Why not?” 

She puts her hands on her hips. He’s a little anxious at the action cause his sisters do that before they tackle him, and his mom does it before she’s about to lecture. Always lecture and never yell like Dad. He’s not completely sure he prefers the disappointed lecture.

“There are some things that girls do and some things that boys do, and you aren’t suppose to do the things that the other one does.” 

Kirby thinks it over. He has noticed sometimes that he gets yelled at for doing stuff his sisters do, but you don’t really complain when Dad is yelling at you. You just stop what you’re doing.

“Like what?” he asks, throwing the ball when he notices she’s starting to get impatient. He doesn’t want to annoy her when she’s helping him get much better at football. 

She runs forward to catch it, and he knows she had to put effort forth to catch it, but he still feels kind of proud of himself. Since they started playing together, she’s started being able to catch some of his balls, and he’s pretty good at catching hers. Even Dad has noticed.

“Well. Boys play sports, and girls can only play some. Like volleyball and soccer, but only on their own teams. And girls can like shopping, and clothes, and shoes and stuff. Boys don’t like that, unless its related to sports or something. Something boys like,” she explains. 

Kirby doesn’t understand. He knows for a fact that his mom hates shopping, and she loves football as much as Dad does. She even use to be a cheerleader, which Kirby thought was the most you could possibly like football.

“I like shoes,” he mumbles, crossing his arms.

“Sure. And I like football. But we’re not suppose to, so you gotta keep quiet about it. Especially certain stuff. Like, girls like boys and boys like girls. When they love each other, they get married. But sometimes boys like boys and girls like girls. They can’t get married,” she continues, going to throw the ball. 

He thinks about that. He didn’t know that boys were _suppose_ to like girls. They do, he knows that because he sees married people all the time, and all of the boys in his class like this one girl. She’s pretty, but she’s a little mean, and Kirby doesn’t see what the big deal is. 

If you ask him, Casey’s just as pretty, and he doesn’t ignore Kirby when he’s talking. Even that Derby kid, who’s meaner than the girl and big enough to back it up, is prettier. Maybe not pretty, but he’s not sure what the word is when you think boys look nice.

He lines up himself up, hopping and managing to get a good grip on the ball as his feet hit the ground so he doesn’t lose it. Pride bubbles up inside of him, and he grins up at the girl. She’s smiling.

“If a boy likes a boy or a girl likes a girl,” she continues, holding her hands out for the ball. “That’s called gay. And if you’re gay, you have to keep it a secret cause it’s wrong.”

Kirby freezes, dropping the ball. He can hear the girl’s protest, but it’s the least of his concerns.

It’s okay, though; he’s good at keeping secrets.


	3. Gary

Gary is pretty sure his parents hate him.

Actually, he’s pretty sure everyone hates him, and he’s doesn’t know why.

Except for some of the kids at school, nobody has come outright and said it, but the evidence has been pretty clear. Gary can’t prove anything, and he’s terrible at understanding why people act the way they do, but he’s practically a detective when it comes to reading the signs that people dislike him.

His dad is almost never around, which Gary reasons could have absolutely nothing to do with him. Dad hates Mom, so it could be that he’s avoiding her, or he really could just be that busy with work. He knows his dad works in some sort of political position, and Bullworth is a pretty closed off town, so he’s always off working on the economic relations between their town and the others. At least, that’s what Gary’s overheard when his parents yell at each other at night.

But the thing about all of that is that he’d think that if his dad didn’t hate him, he’d talk to Gary the few times he is home. Or acknowledge his existence at all, really. When he was younger and stupid, he use to wait by the window when he knew the man was coming home, running to wrap himself around the man’s legs when he walked in the door.

Nothing. Not a word. Not a look. Nothing to let Gary know he even knew he was there. He’d just keep walking until Gary was forced to let go or be dragged across the tile of the entryway, and he knows from experience it’s better to just let go.

How someone could hate him when Gary has no memories of spending time with them, he’s not sure, but there’s lots of people in his life he can’t remember ever not hating him, so maybe it’s just expected.

Mom is different, and he can’t figure out if it’s better or worse. She doesn’t ignore him. She’s pretty much the only one who doesn’t, he tries so hard for her because of it, but she just always seems so annoyed with him.

He’s only eight, and as much as he parades around school acting like he has his shit together, he doesn’t have anything together. Mom cries all the time, right in the living room. Hasn’t tried to hide it as long as Gary can remember. And she does not appreciate when Gary tries to curl up with her.

He just wants to make her feel better, but she makes it clear that he’s the last person capable of achieving that. Always yells hurtful things at him until he’s scrambling away as quickly as possible to hide in his closet where it’s dark, and quiet, and no one is blaming him for things he can’t control or understand.

She screams, and yells, and threatens, and begs for him to just be still for five minutes. To shut up for thirty seconds of blissful silence. He tries too, because his mom is the only parent he has left, but it’s hard. He forgets that she doesn’t care what he has to say, and sitting still becomes physically painful sometimes.

Teachers hate him for the same reason. Sit down. Pay attention. ‘It’s not his fault,’ he overhears them saying when he can’t find a way to entertain himself during recess. ‘He’s just stupid’.

He’s not stupid! He’s really smart; he knows loads of words, and reads books that some of the fifth graders struggle with, and can tell you loads of facts about different wars. Interesting stuff unlike the bullshit that they teach in second grade, like the Pilgrims. Pilgrims were terrible people, and they want Gary to sing songs about friendship and turkey? He doesn’t think so.

Kids at school hate him, but he doesn’t care about them. Except Petey, who is suppose to be the one person that doesn’t hate him, and probably hates him the most. So much so that he’s not even allowed to hang out with the boy outside of school anymore. He’s tried anyways, because Petey’s way too nice to tell Gary to go away, but he always ends up getting dirty looks from Petey’s parents and told to go home.

That hurts a lot, Petey’s parents hating him. He use to take comfort knowing he had a place to go if things were really bad at home, and when aren’t they? They never told Gary to shut up, and any fidgeting usually led to the boys being gently pushed into the backyard to play some sort of game with Petey’s dad until Gary’s too tired to do anything but lay starfished on their floor.

They were suppose to be friends, and it’s not his fault that Petey’s a crybaby. It’s not Petey’s fault either. Younger boy never use to hold it against him when he got too aggressive or loud or demanding, but he’s also way too emotionally fragile. Petey’s parents were suppose to understand. He’s not being mean, he just doesn’t know any other way to act.

Now Petey tries to avoid Gary’s eyes at school, and he can’t help it if the baby breaks down into tears after he shoves the idiot to the ground. How dare he treat Gary like he doesn’t matter. Like he’s worthless. Like everyone else treats Gary. Fuck Pete, and fuck his parents.

After all, everyone hates Gary.

Gary is pretty sure the person who hates him the most is himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come love me at my [tumblr](http://beathimbacktotheghetto.tumblr.com)


	4. Peanut

There are certain unspoken rules in New Coventry that you learn out of necessity of survival. Those rich pricks in the Vale compare them to animals in a zoo, and Larry’s inclined to believe his ma when she calls them racist assholes, but sometimes he thinks it might be the most accurate description. He’s never been to a zoo, but he certainly feels like an animal most days, slinking from alley to alley in an attempt to avoid trouble that always seems to find him anyway.

A teacher at school once told him that humans weren’t subject to evolution anymore. That civilization had voided the process of survival of the fittest. He thinks she’s probably never been in a ghetto.

Larry knows better than most the consequences of breaking the mold in New Coventry. Except in his case, it wasn’t so much breaking the mold as it was not filling it completely. The point being, he’s a little small and a lot emotionally fragile, and it makes for a bad combination in a neighborhood like theirs.

He sees it in Ma’s eyes whenever he leaves the house alone. She’s afraid he’s not going to come back, and that’s a scary thing to realize at nine. His Ma is tough as nails, have to be when you’re a single woman raising a kid whose father you couldn’t pick out of a lineup, and she’s not scared of a whole lot.

So far, he’s been pretty lucky. He’s small, but he’s fast. Sometimes being a coward is the smartest thing you can do.

Sometimes he wishes he were a girl; he’d take leers over the threat of a beating.

It happens when he’s walking home from school, alone. There are other kids from New Coventry in his school, of course there are when your only choice is Bullworth Elementary and Bullworth Academy, but he doesn’t really have any friends. He’s never tried to make any; staying under the radar is more important than fixing something as silly as loneliness. There are worse things in this world. He’s seen them.

It’s raining. He’s running a little late after a teacher stopped him to ask where his umbrella is. He doesn’t understand why his answer about not having one leads to a twenty minute conversation about his home life, but he hadn’t known how to get out of the conversation without being rude. Ma didn’t raise him to be rude.

He sees them before they make themselves known. Middle school boys who’ve decided to hang around the neighborhood after school as if it’s better than being at Bullworth. Larry thinks they’re pretty stupid. He’s seen the campus of Bullworth. It’s a hell of a lot nicer than here.

“Hey Romano,” one them calls, the rest snickering. He ignores them, walking faster. “Romano, we’re fucking talking to you.”

“How much your mom get paid to let your dad fuck her raw?” another calls. He stops, heart thudding against his rib cage.

“Aw, we hurt the bastard baby’s feelings?”

Larry whips around, face furious.

“Fuck you!” he screams, shaking from the cold, the embarrassment, the anger. He doesn’t know, but no one talks shit about his ma. She’s worked too hard in her life, too hard for him for him to let anyone say such horrible things about her.

Their laughter stops, faces hardening and his heartbeat quickens impossibly to something that’s painful. Next thing he knows, he’s running, bag smacking wetly against his back. The boys are screaming behind him, and he’s so scared, he prays. He prays because God never did nothing for him, but maybe just this once.

He doesn’t predict how deep the puddle in front of him is until he’s falling, chin skidding through pavement and dirty water. Everything hurts, and they haven’t even touched him yet.

He prays he can make it home after they finish with him. They won’t kill him probably, but if he can’t get home, there’s no shortage of men in the neighborhood who will.

He prays his mother never has to find his body. That’s the kind of sick shit people in this neighborhood would do. Leave a single woman the body of her bastard child on her doorstep. He doesn’t want that.

He prays. Maybe just this once. He’s nine. He’s too young. He’s nine. Just this once. He’s nine. He’s nine. He’s nine.

He’s glad it’s raining so they can’t tell he’s crying.

“What the  _fuck_!?” someone yells, not the boys circling around him, legs drawn back to attack.

They freeze, mumbling to themselves before one of them spits on him, and they’re all running away. The water splashes on his face as they leave, and it’s bitter. It tastes like what living in this neighborhood feels like, but he doesn’t care.

“Oh my god. Larry, are you okay? Larry?”

It’s a girl. Lola. Her name’s Lola, but he didn’t know she knew his name. That’s stupid though, everyone knows everyone in this neighborhood, but he’d tried so hard to remain unnoticed.

“Jesus fuck, Johnny. How’d you scare away middle schoolers?” another voice asks. He can’t tell how many there are from where he’s laying, but he’s willing to bet the entire group’s here.

Shame washes over him as he places his palms against the pavement, pushing himself to his feet. Slowly. Everything hurts. It’s still pouring down, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. He turns, breath hitching when he notices the group eying him.

Johnny fucking Vincent.

Everyone knows Johnny. He’s the toughest kid in the neighborhood, and he’s not even in Bullworth yet. He’s the one the adults in the neighborhood sigh about and respect in equal measures. Johnny’s so cool, and he’s the asshole kid with tear tracks running down his cheeks.

“You cool, kid? Gosh, you’re tiny,” Johnny mumbles. Larry flinches, shrinking in on himself. “Hey no, we’re cool. We’re cool, right guys?” The other boys makes noises of agreement, but that doesn’t mean much to him.

“Larry, do those boys always bother you?” Lola asks. He doesn’t answer her, eyes focused on the ground. He’s still standing in the fucking puddle. What an idiot.

“Hey, fuck those guys. You’ll walk home with us from now on, yeah? Peanut?” Johnny tries.

“Peanut?” he mumbles. Johnny smiles.

“Yeah. We gotta stick together, like two peanuts in a pod or whatever, right?”

“Johnny, it’s peas. Peas in a pod,” Lola corrects, the other boys snickering.

“Whatever. I already gave him the fucking nickname. You coming, Peanut?”

He shivers. He’d only ever wanted to be left alone.

“Y-yeah,” he agrees, trudging out of the puddle.

When he gets home, his mother wraps him in her arms and cries.

It’s okay.

He came back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come love me at my [tumblr](http://beathimbacktotheghetto.tumblr.com).


	5. Zoe

Zoe doesn’t understand the way that she feels. 

Other people are easy. Sometimes it feels like she’s never felt anything for herself, and everything is just an echo of someone else. Emotions themselves are easy to pinpoint, and appropriate responses come to her naturally. She’s good with people.

Her own feelings are a bit more complex, so she defaults. Just being happy is easier than figuring out why she is and isn’t at the same time. 

It should be impossible for happy, and sad, and disappointed, and excited, and more to occupy such a small body at the same time. They’re not even warring, instead tucking together inside of her like a game of tetris. It’s nauseating and the only thing at the forefront of all of it is the clawing feeling of drowning.

Daddy hits her; that’s fine.

She says as much when anyone questions her unendingly chipper attitude. 

Zoe Taylor is a happy child. Aggressive for a young lady, sure, and she’s got a mouth on her, but she’s always happy. Most people don’t look beyond the aggression, but the happy thing is always a safeguard for the truth. 

Gary looks at her like he can see that she’s drowning but doesn’t realize she can see it too.

She wears her bruises like badges of honor and wants to scream, “Look at how strong I am,” but she doesn’t say anything to anyone. Staying silent is worse. It hurts. She defaults.

It starts out like any other day.

She’s tucked between the side of the couch and the wall. It’s out of the way, safe, away from her room, because running away draws attention, and if he doesn’t notice her, he forgets she’s there.

Her ears ring from the screaming. Profanities that she hears without flinching and repeats without thought. They’re just words, and words don’t mean anything. It’s how you say them that has the power to cut, and her parents spit them like weapons. It’s normal.

Her mother is crying, the silent kind where nobody’d know if they couldn’t see the tears running down your face. She’s gasping out apologies between insults, the way she always does. Her mother is a firecracker, quick to spark. Explode. Quicker to beg forgiveness for anger she knows is justified.

Anger is unattractive in women. Just like talking back and standing up for yourself. Strength is unattractive, and being unattractive is fatal. Unattractive girls are ‘lucky’ for attention they don’t want. If she stays attractive, she never has to realize the guys that like her are assholes. Her mother’s taught her that much.

This time is like every other time, but it’s different. 

There are boxes by the front door that fill more with every cutting remark. Empty spaces where certain things use to be. Her dad’s record collection is gone. The bookshelf with all the interesting books is bare, and one of the shelves appears to have been shoved back in improperly after being snapped in half. Trophies from when her dad was in high school are missing.

The yelling stops, and that’s familiar, but with the yelling goes the boxes. 

Slamming doors and the most mournful scream she’s ever heard from a human being draws her out of her hiding spot. She wanders around the house, confused. She doesn’t understand. It’s empty, practically. 

In Blue Skies, men rule the household. Men support the family, if there’s any way to do it. They have nothing. A quick trip past the locked door of her parents’ room where the muffled sound of her mother screaming can be heard confirms what she already knows.

She falls to her knees, palms against the ugly rug her mom had been so proud of buying a few days ago and breaks down. Crying is unfamiliar to her, and her body rocks with years of repressed grief. She cries until her throat burns, long after the dry sobs start.

Being upset is unreasonable. She realizes this long before anyone else tells her. He hit her, covered her in marks that broadcasted to the world how much she was worth. He hurt her, but he’s never going to again. She should be happy, like always.

Why didn’t he see that she was strong enough?

She cries a lot between the day he leaves and the day the last of the bruises fade, but never again.


	6. Jimmy

He’s four, and it’s his dad tossing him in the air, laughing when he shrieks on the way down with his arms thrown out like he’s gliding. Every once in a while, there’s a slip, and he’s caught by the back of his shirt, dangling back and forth until his dad swings him back into his arms to repeat the process. Something his dad calls ‘controlled disaster’.

His mom watches with a nervous eye, mumbling “Don’t drop the baby,” when what she means is ‘my baby,’ and he’s rolling his eyes because the very idea is laughable. As long as he’s here, there’s no risk of Jimmy getting hurt.

And then he’s five, and it’s his mom clutching at his hand like her life depends on it at the hospital. Again, tighter and more desperate at the funeral. For the last time while they lower the casket into the ground, when there are no more tears, but she’s emanating a dangerous sort of energy that has his stomach in knots. This disaster isn’t controlled in the least.

They move halfway across the country soon after, and Jimmy never remembers what city his own father is buried in.

Six, and it’s his mom’s boyfriend Todd saying he’s going to be Jimmy’s new daddy. He’s not happy about it; he doesn’t want a new daddy, but his mom seems so happy. It’d be wrong to stand in the way of that, even if Todd grabs his arm a little too hard sometimes with a look in his eyes that means it’s no accident.

Mom notices the finger shaped bruises littering his arm when she catches him after a shower one night. She kicks Todd out, and then they’re moving again without warning or notice to anyone.

Next comes seven, and it’s Steven and his friends pushing a cracked beer bottle into hands that are too small, laughing when he chokes on the liquid burning its way through his stomach. Or maybe that’s the acid fear of not measuring up to this man who starts every sentence directed at Jimmy with ‘no son of mine,’ and he’s so afraid of not being enough once again.

His friends mumble inappropriate things that Jimmy picks up without trying, sneering when he learns to take it without flinching. Like a man. He expects Steven to be proud.

Steven spits in his face on the way out the door.

Eight is Richard who never lies about being Jimmy’s dad. Who doesn’t even acknowledge Jimmy’s presence at all, which becomes disturbing the eleventh or twelfth times he mentions Jimmy’s mom’s vagina while he’s in the room. As far as Richard is concerned, Jimmy is an irrelevant presence in the house.

He learns how to treat women like trash from Richard. How to talk to them like property rather than people, and the way they won’t do anything about it, even if it really pisses them off. He learns that women are stupid in love, but even that has its breaking point, and they’re back on the east coast before Richard’s home from work.

Nine is Edgar, Carl, Max, and Henry.

They’re all in and out the door as quickly as Jimmy learns their names. Not even worth a mention, but he carves a mental notch for each of them anyways.

Ten, eleven, twelve, and thirteen are Cherry, who smokes like she wants to die but asks Jimmy about his day like it’s the only thing she’s ever wanted to hear. She sends him on field trips with the money she makes from the club she and his mom work at, and he’s not naive enough to wonder why she always seems to have singles on her. He knows enough about the world at this point to understand.

When it comes to love, Cherry teaches him it doesn’t have to be one or the other, and that women don’t have to be weak. He learns that weak isn’t a default; it’s part of a bigger picture, and you never quite know where someone is coming from with just a glance. Cherry leaves his life with a screaming match, and his mother shoving him out the door, fingers digging into the flesh of his shoulder while she hisses about ‘faggots and dykes’.

She smacks him when he has the nerve to dig his heels into the pavement and tell her she’s wrong.

He smacks her back without thinking, eyes burning from anger and something he doesn’t know the name of. Cherry taught him his self-worth too, and he’s put up with his mom’s shit for years.

The look in her eyes is undeniably rage, but he can see the fear underneath it too, and he feels validated. Strong. In control.

She whispers “You’re not a baby anymore,” when what she means is ‘my baby’.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi ho, I'm over [here.](http://www.beathimbacktotheghetto.tumblr.com)


	7. Edgar

Bullworth Academy was never an option for him. It’s not something he’s bitter about or anything he holds against his parents. He understands better why they refused to waste the money probably more than they do because, unlike the other Blue Skies kids, he’s known his place since the cradle. 

School was never in the stars for him.

It’s not all bad. His self-awareness has led him down a path of preemptive self-education and a leadership role he’s been carving out for himself while the other kids had their hopes set on something better. Something beyond them.

He doesn’t blame them for not getting it as quickly as he did.

It leads for some hurt, something he’s not capable of protecting them from. He’d like to, because he loves them all for what they are, but you can’t shelter a Blue Skies kid. It sets them up for failure in the harshness of reality.

In truth, there are worse things than being kicked back into a trailer park with the realization you never stood a chance.

They all come back to him eventually, his kids. These children he’s helped raise and form and mold into what they are despite being a child himself. A peer and a mentor. And he’d never discourage them, never make it known that their failure is unavoidable, but he makes it damn clear before he releases them to their fate that he’s always here.

That they’ll always have a home and be welcomed back with open arms when reality sets in that everything has its place, and Bullworth is not a place of promotion.

Zoe’s always been a little different. He loves all his kids, all the boys, but what he feels for Zoe is encompassing. There aren’t many girls in Blue Skies. Women, yes. Plenty. Most of them defeated wives or younger girls resorting to lifestyles that prevent them from holding on to the innocence of their age.

In that atmosphere, Zoe has always been something precious.

She’s also been too eager for her own good. It’s not unusual of course. His boys left him the same way. Determined to make their way out of Blue Skies however they could. Bullworth was that ticket. They’ve all tried, but Zoe. Zoe is different. She might have had a chance.

He blames Gary Smith for putting stupid ideas in her head.

Edgar doesn’t want to flat out tell Zoe she’s not better than all this, because he doesn’t think it’s true and he won’t be made the enemy by some rich fuckboy who has the cash to back any life decisions he makes, but at the same time, it’s hard.

Zoe is most definitely better than all this, but this is all she’s getting. If it weren’t for Smith, she’d have realized it on her own. Given up maybe. Been smart like him. Not wasted the energy when you’re going to end up in the same place regardless.

Not ended up so hurt by her failure.

He finds out about her expulsion several days before she starts showing up around Blue Skies again. That’s probably for the best, all things considered. Beyond being smug, beyond being pleased at her return, he’s angry.

She got hurt, so much more hurt than the rest of them because of the nature of her return.

Of all the things he expected from Smith, protecting her from this was on top of the list. He doesn’t trust the fidgety fuck as far as he can throw him, but he knows the kid really did care about Zoe. That she listened to him in a way she never listened to Edgar.

He should have done better. Protected her in ways she wouldn’t let Edgar.

She’s on her porch when he finally decides to approach her. Unlike the boys, she hadn’t made her return known to Edgar, regardless of the fact that he knows everything that goes down in Blue Skies. 

Avoiding them, he thinks. Clinging on to her dignity. A Townie in everything but title.

He’d let her. Let her figure herself out, but she needs the support. He wants to give her the support and the boys have been nervously asking after her, unsure of where they stood. Zoe’s always been too distant from them, choosing Smith over her neighborhood.

Inexcusable if it were anyone else.

“Sulking doesn’t change anything, Zoe,” he says in greeting, leaning against the railing. She doesn’t like when people stand over her, men especially, but he won’t be on her level until she accepts that her level is undoubtably below his.

“Fuck off, Edgar,” she sulks, avoiding eye contact. He huffs a laugh.

“I’m not the one who wasn’t capable of protecting you. Where’s Smith now, hm?”

She stands abruptly, storming down the steps until she’s pressed angrily against him in a way that should be threatening, but she’s still a child and he’s not afraid of her.

“Gary has nothing to do with this, and I _don’t need protection from_ ** _anyone_**! Why is everything about Gary with you?”

She sounds scared, behind the anger than the bullshit attitude they all grew up with. Edgar clenches his fingers, taking comfort in the blunt pain of bruised knuckles and dirty nails digging into his palms. Intentional pain, grounding, because he’s learned from years of fighting how to properly make a fist.

“He’s everything we’re against,” he spits, teeth grinding. He won’t be one of those boys to her. The ones who raise their voice and their fists to ground their point in. He won’t let her dismiss his concern when all he’s ever done and all he’s looked to do is look after his kids.

She laughs, low and bitter. Zoe hasn’t been around much in the past years, but he remembers her well enough. Happy, as much so as she could be with the way she compartmentalizes everything. Too sweet for her own good, even with that poor kid roughness about her.

It seems almost unfair that she would evolve to embody that harshness that the rest of them have without his notice.

“What are we against? Who the fuck are you fighting, sitting in this dump?” she challenges.

“Don’t play dumb, Zoe. You got your education, way more than the rest of us ever had a chance of. You should know better. Everyone knows Smith’s a mutt.”

“Thought we liked mutts here. That’s your aesthetic, isn’t it, Edgar? Collecting strays.”

He scoffs, shakes his head.

“The Coventry fucks and the rich Vale bitches. He’s their bastard poster child. You vouched for him, Zoe. Where’d that get you?” he demands, smirking when she deflates.

She looks heartbroken at the question, and he takes it as a victory.

He’s almost ashamed to admit how pleased he is that she failed. Not truly, because he always had high hopes for Zoe. And she will achieve, she’ll be the best Blue Skies has to offer for years to come, but she doesn’t need the rest of Bullworth for that. She is and always has been a Townie by birth right.

Edgar played fair, gave Smith his chance, and he’d sat by idly, afraid he’d misjudged. That Smith wouldn’t fuck up.

Victory’s the sweetest when it ends in his kids coming back home to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come love me at my [tumblr](beathimbacktotheghetto.tumblr.com)


End file.
